The Lord of Opium

The door closed behind them, and Matt jumped at a sudden grinding, creaking noise. Ancient robots were coming to life, their arthritic limbs jerking into motion. Smaller machines hurried among them, oiling and flexing their joints. “They look like bugs! Big, horrible, ugly bugs!” cried Listen, trying to wrench open the door. “Don’t let them touch me!” She screamed as the fully lubricated robots moved forward, their metal hands clicking.

“Easy, chiquita. They’re programmed to disinfect us. I’ll go first,” said the jefe. But even he looked nervous as the ancient robots sprayed his clothes and the little machines crawled over him like mice to poke disinfectant into his ears and nose. When they were finished, they moved on to Matt, and he did his best not to panic. Listen tried to climb up the smooth wall of the bubble, but the robots pulled her down.

“Show some class. No drug lord would ever marry such a crybaby,” Cienfuegos scolded.

“I don’t care! They’re big, horrible, ugly bugs!” yelled Listen. She batted away the little machines, but they kept on coming, and finally she rolled herself into a ball and endured the process. Then the robots cleansed Mirasol, who of course showed no reaction at all.

They were allowed through to a second chamber, where they were dried and told to breathe deeply by a large machine that belched scented air. “I believe this is to clear the germs that live inside us,” said Cienfuegos. After an hour they were released to yet a third area, where new clothes were presented to them. These were white tunics, and each of them received the correct size. By now Listen had calmed down, and she fingered the cloth with interest.

When they had passed through the final door, they found themselves in a grove of trees whose branches stretched toward a distant glass ceiling. It was like a place in a dream where the colors were unusually clear and bright. The air had the smell of green, growing things. They heard a brook and saw the pond into which it emptied behind a screen of reeds. “It’s raining,” whispered Listen, her voice muted with awe.

“Yes, it is,” said Matt. The room was so huge that clouds had formed between them and the ceiling, and cool drops pattered around them. In the distance, between stands of oak, laurel, and pine, was a field of golden wheat. People in white tunics bent to harvest it. “It’s so peaceful,” Matt said, and was swept by a longing to live in such a place forever.

Rain pocked the surface of the pond, and a frog suddenly bellowed, Kre-ek! Kre-ek! Another frog answered, and soon a whole chorus was calling.

Listen ran over to the pond and thrust her hands into the water. A loud splash followed. “Crap! I almost had him!”

“No, no, no, no, no,” came a voice from behind the reeds. A second later a man emerged and shook his finger in front of the little girl’s face. “Please do not tease the amphibians,” he said. “They must sing if they are to mate.”

Listen goggled at the strange man. His tunic and hair were streaming with water. “Are you a scientist?”

“The scientists have been gone for years. I am a frogherd,” the man said.

Listen burst into laughter. “A frogherd? What do you do? Chase ’em up and down the pool?”

“Frogherd is an honorable profession,” the man said stiffly. “You are obviously a brat and should be penned up with the other immatures.”

Cienfuegos laughed. “You’re right about that, señor. But we are visitors and can only stay a few hours.”

“Visitors?” The man frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“People from outside.”

“I have heard of such beings but thought it was a legend.” A frog croaked, and the man’s head jerked toward the sound. He seemed to have forgotten the existence of anything else.

“What happened to the scientists?” asked Matt.

The frogherd turned back with a look of impatience. “They have gone to Gaia, but there is no need for them anymore. We know everything about our world and merely care for our companion animals and plants.”

“You don’t say! Where’s Gaia?” Cienfuegos asked.

“Surely you are joking. Gaia is not a place. She is the Mother of All, the Earth Herself. Now I must return to my frogs.”

“Wait! I’ve brought the new patrón to see you,” said the jefe.

“Patrón? I seem to have heard that word before,” mused the man. “Is it a kind of animal?”

“He’s your boss,” said Cienfuegos.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” the man fussed. “No one owns nature. We are all Earth’s creatures.” He walked off without saying good-bye.

“What a strange person,” said Matt.

“The original inhabitants were top-grade scientists, but at least four generations have passed,” Cienfuegos said. “Perhaps their children have gone back to the wild.”